


Midnight In Moonlight

by Druid_Moon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Druid_Moon/pseuds/Druid_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secrets have a way of coming out at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight In Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to batsonthebrain, because she came up with the general prompt. I just borrowed it.
> 
> Nothing belongs to me, all characters are property of ABC and Disney.

It was with a sigh of relief that Emma locked the door behind her. She loved Mary Margaret, she really did, but sometimes she was just too much. Even after all she'd been through, even after all the heartache and pain and misery of the whole Kathryn-David thing, she was still a paragon of sweetness and light. She didn't smile as much as she used to, didn't laugh quite as lightly, but she still shone with inner peace and tranquility. 

It was Mary Margaret who invited Ruby and Ashley over for a girl's night, and had apparently even sent _Kathryn_ an invitation (which was unsurprisingly declined). Emma had been invited as well, but after seeing the bottles Ruby had procured from god-knew-where, she declined and made up an excuse about paperwork and sheriff business. She felt guilty, lying to her best friend, but she desperately needed some time _alone,_ away Henry's insane fairytale business, away from mayors with vendettas and especially away from her roommate. She had worried herself sick while Mary Margaret was in jail, and now that she was back- 

Emma was lost. 

She wasn't used to taking care of people. She wasn't used to the idea of having people depend on her, and regardless of what she told Mary Margaret at Jefferson's house, it still scared her a little to have family. She knew she couldn't handle this in her normal fashion and run away, but she could run to a place where no one would bother her if she was careful. 

After a frantic search under her car seats (she knew her iPod was in there _somewhere)_ and a quick stop at the market (a small bottle of whiskey, and some lemonade), Emma unlocked the door to the sheriff's office. It was quiet, it was dark, and most of all it was blessedly _empty._ Leroy was off... wherever, Regina was cackling over her cider, and Emma finally had her peace. 

She dropped her bags on the desk, draped her jacket over the back of her chair, and kicked off her boots. Her head fell back, eyes closed, and she breathed lighter than she had in days. It was soothing to sit there in the relative dark, identifying the different scents in the air. 

Leather (from jackets and holsters)- 

Gun oil (from where she once spilled a bit while cleaning her pistol)- 

Old wood (the desk was solid and comforting beneath her propped feet)- 

Paper and ink (because paperwork is _never_ done, ever)- 

Dust (she really needs to see if there's a cleaning service in town)- 

Iron (an old, familiar smell, both comforting and unnerving in her memories)- 

She sat in the dark for a few minutes more, relaxed and content and just there, until her nerves got the better of her and the ritual began. 

The first crack of the seal on the bottle, while expected, still startled and made her jump. It's not until after she's twisted the cap off completely and the smell of whiskey has permeated the room that she's calm enough to continue. 

She pours a small amount into the bottom of her new cup. Apparently the only style the market sold in single quantities is a travel mug- 

(“good for tea and coffee!” the clerk cheerfully informed her) 

-and so she has to wait until the shivers have stopped and she can pour more into the bottom. There's something inexplicably _wicked_ about drinking in the sheriff's office, and thinking about it made her jitters return. 

She took a swig straight from the bottle, tense and ready for the burn. She isn't disappointed; the whiskey's cheap and seared her throat on the way down. She chased it with a gulp of lemonade, the taste almost like a whiskey sour, and so the rest of the lemonade and more whiskey are poured into her cup, until all she can smell are lemons and a heady sort of exhilaration.

Time for the last part of her secret ritual. 

-o-

 Jefferson hasn't had much to do since Emma and Snow kicked him out of this plane of existence. He managed to find his way out again, of course, but he stays up in his house, as far away from the Deadly Duo as he can get-

(because _yes_ , while he realizes his actions were strictly in the wrong, that did _not_ give Snow the right to kick him out a _third story window_ )

and as hidden from Regina's eyes as he can possibly get without completely abandoning Grace.

It's during one of his checks that he sees movement on Main Street. He focuses and realizes it's the Sheriff, going into her office at- he checks his watch- _11 pm_ at night? 

Curious, he follows her movements as best he can. She doesn't turn on any lights, which makes it harder, but he can see blurry movement behind the shades, vague shapes in the moonlight. He thinks she's seated at her desk, but can't be sure. He thinks she holds a cup in her hands, but maybe he's mistaken.

Then everything changes.

-o-

She feels dangerous, like she should be doing something more than just drinking in the dark. The iPod is set to shuffle, slipped into the pocket of her jeans, and the shades are drawn up to let the moonlight stream in. Turning on the lights to chance others notice someone in the office was not an option for tonight, so she uses the moonlight instead. It paints the room a ghostly silver, and she feels even more reckless. 

The music is too soft to hear, so the dial is turned and the songs play louder, thumping in her ears. She starts to sway, hips moving from side to side, and she moves towards the center of the room.

She used to be a club rat, when she was young and stupid. It was how Henry came about, and several other bad decisions too. Not that Henry was a bad decision- no, she thanked every deity she could think of that she gave birth to her amazing son. She just wishes his father was more than just a unintentional sperm donor, more than a fling from the club turned something else.

The next song doesn't fit her mood, and gets skipped. She avoids the heavy songs, the hard songs, and instead goes for the soft and seductive. It reminds her of better times, before she was this broken, before she came to Storybrooke (because she loves Henry, loves loves _loves_ him, but she hates this town more than anything).

She pauses only to sip from her drink, and then is back undulating and moving in the moonlight. It feels so good, so alive, to move like this. She would never try this kind of dancing here, not in Storybrooke. She's already a loose woman thanks to having a son out of wedlock (although she snorts at the idea, because _loose_ implies she was _tight_ to begin with, and no one growing up like she did ever got anywhere by playing _tight_ ), but she definitely doesn't want to give anyone ideas (like Whale, the pig).

Her hands skim up and down her curves. Her neck is bared, head rolling to the side with the beat, hips swing in time with the singer's crooning. She doesn't know why she likes this song, other than it's melody, because the lyrics hit too close to home regarding a certain _insane_ individual she met not that long ago, but she loves it and the feelings it evokes all the same.

-o-

Jefferson's eyes are wide in disbelief. Emma Swan, Sheriff and Savior, is drinking and _dancing_ in the moonlight of her office. He shakes his head once, just to be sure, and looks again- 

Only to catch a glimpse of a toned stomach as her shirt rides up and he's ripping himself away, breathing quickened and hands trembling. She doesn't realize what she's doing, doesn't realize she's teasing her unknown audience. He is drawn back to the telescope, mouth dry as the desert, to watch as she performs a swirling undulating gyration that leaves no doubt to her flexibility. 

He watches as her dancing slows, her song apparently coming to an end. He watches as she disappears from view, and he thinks that her performance is over; that he was incredibly _un_ lucky to see her, because now he has _thoughts_ running through his head, incredibly wicked _sinful_ thoughts that always end with Emma bent in half, moaning as she wraps around him- 

But no, he thinks as he scrambles for something, _anything_ else to think, she's not left. Her jacket is still there and there are empties on her desk. She may not be the tidiest person in Storybrooke, but she definitely has standards about her workspace and empty whiskey bottles do not fit into that scheme.

His attention turns back to the office as she reappears, carrying something in her arms- 

His mouth goes dry and he watches, shocked, as she gently places his hat on her desk. He watches as she strokes it, _caresses_ it, sees her lips move as she speaks to it. He shudders at the sight, imagines it's him her fingers are touching, and grips his telescope so hard he distantly thinks he might crack the mirror inside. All thoughts of telescopes and mirrors are pushed out of his head as she grabs the hat in a sudden violent motion. For a moment he's terrified she's going to destroy it, but instead she jams it on her head and begins to dance again. 

This time she's moving hard and fast, like she's fighting- 

(The Hatter growls in disagreement from inside his head. Fucking, he snarls, she looks like she's fucking, not fighting-)

-and Jefferson forces himself to breathe, because right now she's _devastating_ him and doesn't even know it. He could watch her dance like this for minutes or hours or years. It honestly doesn't matter, as long as she keeps moving her hips like that. As long as she keeps running her hands up and down her arms, keeps her fingers on his hat- 

He shudders again as she stops in another stunning display of flexibility, bent over her desk in a reverse dip with a leg extended, almost over her head-

-o-

It's with another sigh of relief that she collects her trash and pulls on her boots. It's too hot to wear her jacket again, but if she returns home without it Mary Margaret will ask questions, and Ruby will be vulgar, and Ashley will giggle, and Emma refuses to deal with all of that tonight. 

Instead, she locks the door to the office, throws the trash in a bin on the street, and makes her way home. It's late enough that the girls might be asleep, and if not she'll plead exhaustion. She is exhausted tonight, but not from paperwork. She's exhausted because she hasn't danced in years, hasn't had the urge to move and undulate like that since before Henry is born. The last time she did that, she mused, was for his father.

The thought sobers her for a moment, and she shrugs on the jacket to fight off the shivers that always accompany thoughts of _him._ She knows Henry is curious, but she's still hurt, and refuses to show it to anyone, least of all her kid. 

Her boots thud up the stairs to the apartment, and it's blessedly quiet on the other side of the door. She unlocks it as carefully as she can, and a scene of utter chaos greets her on the other side. The ladies had apparently had a movie night; empty glasses and pizza boxes decorate the coffee table, and it appears like they all passed out on the floor in a giant lump of pillows and blankets. 

With a sigh, Emma locked the door before starting the cleanup. She turned off the television via remote and tiptoed her way to her room in the dark. Ruby stirred as she passed by, but didn't wake up and greet her; she felt guilty at the sense of relief that welled up inside, but she wasn't in any shape to deal with her waitress friend tonight. She's in the mood for a long hard sleep and a late morning tomorrow, and that's exactly what she's going to do.

-o-

 

It has to be a dream, she thinks later, because Jefferson would _never_ crawl through her window and climb into her bed. He would never stretch out behind her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. He wouldn't whisper in her ear about how _wonderful_ she felt, how silky and smooth under his hands, how he wanted to feel her, all of her, _would she let him?_

She would never allow his fingers to dip below her waistband, or his hand to twist up under her shirt. She would never writhe in his arms, because his fingers would never find all the secret places that made her scream and cry into her pillow. She would never twist and arch to kiss him, hot and desperate and so _needy_ for the taste of him, tea and whiskey and sweet. She wouldn't let this happen in real life, she thinks dazedly, right before he does something that _oh god yes, please Jefferson please-_

He would never grind against her, would never let her grasp him in her hand and _pull_ as he _pushed,_ would never bury his face in her hair and groan against her skin. He would never hold her as she convulsed and whimpered, would never kiss her temple and eyes and chin as she came down from her high. 

She would never let him just slip out of her bed as easily as he slipped in. She would never let him leave with a whispered, “ _Next time, princess, you wear the hat_ ” and a kiss that seared her to her toes. She would never let him take a trinket from her bedside table, never let him leave a rose in its place, never let him crawl out the window instead of using the door. 

Then again, she never expected to wake up with a unexplained red mark on her neck and an ache in places that should never ache without her knowledge of how or why or who, either. She never expected to see her Pyrra swan wrapped around the stem of a red-dipped white rose, sitting on top of an invitation to tea either.

-o-

Mary Margaret studied her roommate over the rim of her cocoa mug. Emma was humming an old rock tune from the 70s, dressed only in a pair of shorts and a loose tank. Her hair was mussed from sleep, and she was practically _glowing_ as she cooked breakfast. It wasn't surprising that Mary Margaret could only reach one conclusion.

“Was August any good?” she asked casually. 

Emma yelped in shock and nearly dropped the frying pan on her foot. She spun to glare at Mary Margaret, ignoring the sleepy snickers coming from the Ruby-shaped pile in the corner of the room. “What?”

“August. Was he any good? You're beaming, so he must have done something right.” Mary Margaret nodded as she sipped her cocoa. “Or was it Whale? He's not the best, I admit, but-”

Emma dropped the pan on the counter in front of her. “There wasn't anyone.” she hissed through clenched teeth. “And even if there were, breakfast is not the time to discuss it, if we discussed it _at all_.”

“True.” Mary Margaret agreed. “Tonight over wine?”

“No fair, I wanna be here for that!” Ruby complained as she sat up. Ashley grumbled as the waitress tugged a blanket away and moved blearily towards the smell of bacon. “I've gotta work tonight- maybe tomorrow?”

“There wasn't _anyone.”_ Emma repeated forcefully. “And if you all are done, I'm going to go get dressed, because I can see I'm not going to get any peace today.”

“Gonna go meet him for breakfast?” Ruby called cheerfully after the Sheriff's retreating back.

“No, for tea in his magical castle!” Emma shouted back, back stiff as she marched into her bedroom. 

The door slammed shut behind her and Ruby snickered. Mary Margaret gave her friend an appraising look, curious about the source of the red girl's mirth. For her part, Ruby shrugged and gave Mary Margaret a wickedly sharp smile.

“She really should have washed off his cologne.”

 


End file.
